


bibliophile

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Character Study, Family, Gen, Half-Blood Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger-centric, Indian Harry Potter, Magic, Marauders, One Shot, Patriarchy, Period-Typical Racism, Race, The Marauder's Map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Hermione Granger's father was a wizard;or, a short series of snapshots in the life of Hermione Lupin.





	bibliophile

Hermione Granger grew up in a medium-sized town south of London and was rather average in looks amongst her peers. Her mother, Regan, a towering woman with a smile bright as the sun and skin as dark as her hair, in contrast was _exotic_ and as such, not _suitable_ to be let on the parent council at her primary school. It made Hermione fume. It wasn’t like she had a Caucasian father to rally the village into updating the library for her.

“Well, you do,” Regan notes, when Hermione mentions it. Across the table, Daniel, Hermione’s second-cousin and faux-father figure looked up from his crossword with a raised eyebrow. “He was a bit too pale, to be honest.”

“Too pale? Don’t let the neighbours hear you saying that,” Daniel says pointedly. Daniel, like Hermione, has paler skin than Regan – though to be fair, Regan is _very_ black, so it’s not hard – and mousy brown hair that curls wildly around his head in a loose afro. “What was his name again?”

Regan shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t know.” Regan then goes on to ask Daniel how his crossword is going, as Hermione turns the page of her book.

Hermione is used to conversations like these. Over the years, she has gathered tiny scraps of information about her biological father. Hermione has his eyes and his chin; he was very white and British, not a native of London; he had some interesting scars across his chest and neck; and he never gave her mother his name. Sometimes, she catches her mother watching her in bemused fondness as she pages through all her novels and non-fiction books, wondering out loud if her father was a bookworm, too – her want for knowledge certainly didn’t come from her side of the family.

 _A thirst to know the secrets of the universe,_ the Sorting Hat whispers into her ears, _oh, but it pales in comparison to your loneliness, child and your courage in the face of this abyss that is a new world and life. You remind me of many young witches and wizards from times gone by._

She theorises that evening, in her shared dorm room with Lavender and Parvati’s giggles muffled in the background as she buries herself under her covers, that maybe – _perhaps_ – like her constant reading and learning that doesn’t come from her mother, that-

That maybe-

 _-maybe_ her magic comes from her father, too.

* * *

“Mudblood.”

The word is like acid in her mouth. It tastes like _nigger_ and _foreigner_ , names adults and children in her village called her without second thought. Some of them clearly never knew how bad the words were, either. But this – the word _mudblood_ , being spewed at her by her peers with such hatred and vitriol, in a world where wars have been wrought over blood status – somehow seems worse.

 _The last Human Zoo was only closed in Belgium, nineteen fifty-eight._ The thought is idle. Hermione stares at the ceiling of her curtained bed, wondering if her father is a wizard; wondering if the word _mudblood_ even applies.

It still should, she decides. She’d grown up _muggle_ and she’d die the child of a _muggle woman._ Regan and Daniel went to her parent’s evenings in primary school and swung her around in the air when she was little; her father did not, even if she wish he had. Her fingers curl, white-knuckled, around the hard cover of the library’s copy of _Hogwarts: a History._ Her father doesn’t know she exists. What does he care of Hermione’s blood-status?

“I’m a mudblood,” she says, thinking, _muggleborn, muggleborn, muggleborn_ each and every time the word exits her lips. “I’m a mudblood.”

But then comes third year – and Harry tugs her aside, a strange look on his face as he shows her the Marauders Map, pinpointing them on the aged parchment.

“What…” starts Hermione, her voice dying. _Harry James Potter_ floats above her name, like a boat bobbing on the sea; _Hermione Jean Lupin_ feels like a betrayal.

“Hermione-”

“My name is Granger,” she insists. “My name is Hermione Jean _Granger_ and I will not allow anyone to call me anything less. What kind of map is that? I’m appalled – was this created by wizards? My parents were never married and my father _never_ knew about me. My Hogwarts letter didn’t come addressed to _Hermione Lupin!_ ”

“Hermione,” Harry says again, startled. His green eyes are wide behind his old circular spectacles. Hermione can’t help but sigh, knowing that _again_ , she’s going to be complaining about them to her mother. Harry’s blind without them – it’s a surprise he can read the Map at all. “You- but I thought- your parents-”

“I call my mum’s cousin Daniel _Dad_ sometimes. A lot,” Hermione confesses, finger trailing across her name. Her lip trembles. “Professor Lupin. My mother always said my dad was so pale. I didn’t realise she might have meant _ill_.”

“He must have a condition,” Harry says with a smile – a smile like he knows what she means, unlike Ron, who blinks in confusion whenever Hermione makes the mistake of mentioning _race_ in casual conversation. Harry would know what she means. Although they’re not the same colour, he’s still half-dark like her, _Desi_ to her _Zimbabwean_. “He doesn’t know?”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head, surprised to feel her cheeks are wet. “ _Oh_ ,” she sobs, realising a silly magical item has casually revealed a mystery of her childhood. “Oh, _Harry_ , my _dad_ -”

* * *

In the end, it’s Harry who betrays her secret.

“He told me the Map never lies, so-” and he hesitates, because he knows what he said was _wrong_ “-so I asked him why it called you _Hermione Lupin._ ”

When Hermione sees her ex-professor again, it’s in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, over a year later. The Order of the Phoenix is building itself up inside the ruins of a pureblood estate and Remus watches her from the other end of the kitchen. Sometimes, he looks horrified – which, considering his werewolf status, is justified, Hermione supposes. Sometimes, though…

Sometimes he looks _awed_.

“Sir,” she approaches him one evening, when things are quiet and Sirius is half-drunk on the sofa, singing along to _The Who_ on record. Remus is leant up against a bookshelf with a glass of wine and his eyes are amber when she approaches; it’s the first time she’s seen the peculiarity up close and she only realises it’s a sign of lost control when Remus jerks to attention, shutting them with a full-body cringe.

“Miss Granger,” he starts, voice rough. “I apologise, but I’m not pleasant company tonight.”

“Why did the Map change my name?” Hermione asks him outright, not giving him a single chance to leave. On the sofa, Sirius stops singing. Remus looks at her, blue eyes full of regret. “You told Harry the Map never lies.”

“It doesn’t,” Remus says, quiet. “But we were proud – too proud for our own good. Any children we ever had, regardless of name, would be recognised as ours.”

“How?” Hermione asks, for a brief moment forgetting that this is her father, that this conversation is not her chance to prod and poke a magical inventor. Remus’ lip twitches as they both recognise the slip and her cheeks warm. “I- I mean-”

“It’s alright, Hermione,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder. Hermione struggles to stay still, using all the force of her will not to step closer and act with him like she might act with her mother, with Daniel. “You’re a Granger. You should be proud of that.”

“I am,” Hermione says genuinely. She looks up at him, tucking a stray, mousy-brown curl behind her ear. She thinks of childhood report cards and sicknotes with only her mother’s signature. Hermione realises with a start, that she wants him in her life and so she says, “I just want you to be proud of me, too.”

Her words look like they physically pain him. His shoulders curl inwards and it’s not the reaction she was looking for – except he takes her face in his palms and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Oh, Hermione, I am so proud of you. When I was your professor, I thought you’d go on to be great,” he mumbles. “But when Harry told me about your name on the Map, my heart nearly exploded from disbelief. How could such an amazing, brilliant girl be mine? The Map must have been wrong – but it isn’t and never has been. We were clever young men with ideas of grandeur and legacy. I am _so_ proud of you, Hermione.”

She starts crying. They embrace. His arms are warm and for the first time since before the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione doesn’t feel _jittery_ , like danger is around the corner waiting to get her. Remus’ grip is strong around her and Hermione’s tears dry into the threadbare weave of his striped shirt, Sirius coming up to clap his friend on the shoulder.

“Technically, this means you’re Harry’s cousin, now,” he says, bringing a sweet levity to the moment. Hermione gives a burble of laughter and feels Sirius pat her head. “Little Moony-spawn. Moonlet? Nope – Spoony?”

“ _Sirius_ ,” Remus snorts and then, they’re laughing. It brings a wandering Ron to the room and for a moment, Hermione wonders why he’s staring at her with wide eyes, before she realises _he doesn’t know._

“Ron,” she starts, pulling out of Remus’ embrace and flourishing her wrist. “My father. Remus Lupin.”

His jaw drops.

It’s oddly satisfying to see Remus’ do the same.


End file.
